+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+ T M M OOOOO RRRRR PPPPP OOOOO RRRRR EEEEE V V IIIII EEEEE W W MM MM O O R R P P O O R R E V V I E W W H M M M O O RRRR PPPP O O RRRR EEE V V I EEE W W W M M O O R R P O O R R E V V I E WW WW E M M OOOOO R R P OOOOO R R EEEEE V IIIII EEEEE W W +--------------------------------------------------------------------------+ Volume #2 July 27, 1995 Issue #4 +--------------------------------------------------------------------------+ CONTENTS FOR VOLUME 2, ISSUE 4 Column: Brief Encounter . . . . . . . . . . . Robert A. Fulkerson Column: Toward the Philosophic Mind . . . . Kris Kalil Fulkerson Jericho to Jericho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amelia F. Franz The Projector . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Matthew Franz At the Party . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Samuel Barasch Houses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tara Calishain Early Spring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael Kei Stewart The Charred Language . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Matthew Franz A Review of Dr. Seuss' _Green Eggs and Ham_ . . . . . Matt Mason A Girl and Her Dog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mark Bothum Post-Suicide . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tara Calishain In the Attic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . William C. Burns, Jr. Girl at the Prow of the Ferry . . . . . . . Helen Crombet-Beolens Balloon People . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Arthur Shotmind The Glint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Matthew Franz Company . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thomas J. Hubschman About the Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors In Their Own Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors +--------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +--------------------------------------------------------------------------+ Editor + Poetry Editor Robert Fulkerson The Morpo Staff Matthew Mason rfulk@novia.net + mtmason@morpo.creighton.edu Layout Editor Fiction Editor Kris Kalil Fulkerson J.D. Rummel kkalil@novia.net rummel@creighton.edu +--------------------------------------------------------------------------+ _The Morpo Review_. Volume 2, Issue 4. _The Morpo Review_ is published electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the issue remains intact. Copyright 1995, Robert Fulkerson and Matthew Mason. _The Morpo Review_ is published in Adobe PostScript, ASCII and World Wide Web formats. All literary and artistic works are Copyright 1995 by their respective authors and artists. +--------------------------------------------------------------------------+ EDITORS' NOTES o _Brief Encounter_ by Robert A. Fulkerson I'd like to take a brief moment to discuss eSCENE, the new anthology of the Internet's best on-line fiction, and then I'd like to turn the reigns over to my wife for her first column in _Morpo_. Earlier this year, Jeff Carlson decided that he would put together an anthology of the best fiction published online during 1994. He asked the staff members at literary magazines from around the globe to submit what they believed to be the best fiction that they published last year. It was an odd feeling, choosing and submitting works from your own magazine for consideration in a "best of" magazine. Now I know how all of the authors who submit works to us feel when they confirm sending email to morpo-submissions@morpo.creighton.edu. _The Morpo Review_ had two stories chosen to be include in eSCENE, in which only nine stories from three magazines were chosen. Congratulations to David Pellerin, who wrote _Why They Run_, and Leland Ray, who wrote _Pool Night_, for having their stories selected and reprinted in eSCENE. Congratulations and thanks also go to Jeff Carlson for a highly successful first year publishing venture. You can read eSCENE on the World Wide Web at http://www.etext.org/Zines/eScene/, and it should be availble in ASCII, Postscript and Adobe PDF formats soon. o _Toward the Philosophic Mind_ by Kris Kalil Fulkerson About two months ago, a doctor called me into a room to tell me my grandfather was terminally ill. As I absorbed the fact that Grandpa, the man who never got sick, was dying, my perspective on the world reversed itself. Things that seemed important became trivial, and what was once normal became extraordinary. Up until that day, normal for me was having Grandpa in my life, day in and day out since he and my grandmother moved in with us when I was five years old. It seemed perfectly reasonable to have grown up with Grandpa greeting me in the morning with breakfast, sending me off to school with a sack lunch, and waiting for me when I came home to take me with him to go eat or shop or seek out garage sales. Even when I became "too busy" for such excursions in high school and college, he was still there as I left for school or work, pressing a grilled cheese and ham sandwich in my hand and saying, "Here's a little something to eat on the way, honey." With the discovery of his illness, I began to realize how profoundly my grandfather had influenced my life. Like most of our family, Grandpa had a gift for telling stories. In my eyes he was a magician, crafting words into marvelous tales, with the images carried on his resonant voice being shaped and unfurled by the movement of his hands. With Grandpa, the line between fact and fiction was fine one, for real-life people and places invaded his tales of make-believe and exagerration always seemed to nudge his real-life stories into the realm of being "mostly true." Grandpa's storytelling was the bread of my upbringing. His episodic adventures in which my friends and I were the heroes nourished my imagination, while his nostalgic tales of his family and life in Detroit provided me with a strong sense of tradition and heritage. Through Grandpa's stories, I learned his basic tenets of life: always take care of your family, always look for the good in people, and always find humor in things. Grandpa articulated these beliefs not only in his stories, but also in his actions, which were consistently kind and selfless. The reality of his death is just beginning to settle in my mind. My habits of thought are shifting from, "Oh, I'll have to tell Grandpa" to "I wish I could tell Grandpa." Rather than expecting to hear his "Hi, honey" as I walk in the door of my parents' house, I find myself anticipating Grandma's more practical "Hi, Kris." But amidst all of these adjustments, I cannot assuage my need for sharing those magical moments of storytelling with him. As much as my love of reading enriches my life, there is something intoxicating about the bond generated between the teller of tales and the listener. While the teller gives the words life, the listener gives them meaning. Therefore, to both honor my grandfather and to satiate my craving, I go each week to the cemetery with flowers and a book. Sitting cross-legged next to his grave, I choose a passage or poem from whatever it is I have brought with me, and I read aloud. The very act of releasing my voice to the open air fills the void that Grandpa's death created like nothing else can. And as the breeze rises to meet my words, I believe that somehow my grandfather is listening. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "Jericho to Jericho" by Amelia Fortenberry Franz Don Allen Poole is a pure-dee criminal. That was John Cole's first mistake, the worst thing he could have picked to say to me today. That was enough. But did he stop, does he ever stop after he gets started? You don't know him of course but the answer to that is no. Okay. But here's what did it, the very last nail in John Cole's casket: Does it run in the family? I forgot to say Don Allen Poole is my boy cousin. He is being held in the state pen at Parchman. I think about it sometimes. And of course I tried to explain how it was to them at the office, hoping I wouldn't get the electric paddling machine that is kept in there, which I'm wondering lately if it's a lie to keep kids like me from doing things like busting John Cole every once in a while, going upside his head when he needs it. A attitude adjustment, like I heard Don Allen say one time. He was talking about a different thing of course, but the principle is exactly the same. There are some people in this world who just simply do not know when to quit. Which makes me tired lately, which wears me out, having to defend him from not just people like John Cole anymore who don't count but even my own mother who is his aunt and has been knowing him longer than I have been alive and so loves him more. At first though, before it got to me I wanted to testify it at the trial for him, that he could not have done what they said he did which is shoot a man in the stomach from Tutwiler so he had to have surgery for it and nearly died. And one of the reasons I was going to give them, a plain one they could see and understand is I have seen things about Don Allen that none of those jury ones have ever seen, like the time a couple years back when he hit his own brother Keith Poole for doing nothing but cutting off a piece of cheese to put in a mousetrap. Now tell me this, how can a man that could not even stand for a mouse to be hurting, which can not even talk to you like a man does, shoot a person in the stomach where everybody knows is the most painful and takes the longest to heal and then drive off to Clarksdale and shoot pool with a black man and a Choctaw. He couldn't, that's the answer. Which I could have told them if they had listened. I could have changed the whole thing, maybe. But they stuck me for the day with Rosemary Spinks and her fat aunt at their rickety trailer, playing cutouts and Slapjack and hospital. On television they would say a man's life is at stake here, a man's life. But forget about trying to explain anything to Rosemary and Hilda Spinks. And that mousetrap is not the only reason about Don Allen. All they had to do is talk to him for a while and they would have known. He has got a pet bird in there now I hear, that he caught and tamed and is keeping and all the rest are wanting from him. So that is the way things are with Don Allen Poole, my cousin, and how he got in Parchman in the first place. I have been writing letters to him since December, saving them up for when I get to go up and visit him on a Sunday, which I have been promised for a while. I tell him things like this: Hang on Don Allen, People like John Cole don't count. This town is full of people who don't know when to quit, who would have stood in line waiting and hoping for a chance to put their very own nail in Jesus. Is your bird all right, what do you call it? Do the fields get longer and flatter and dryer the closer you get to Parchman, Is the air there still and heavy and bright when dusk hits and you are sure this entire world is ready to fall apart, burn up, explode, when you do not know where you stop and the rest of it starts. Does the whitest slice of pine ever miss the tree they stole it from, If a bomb is dropped on China what happens to the souls of them who never knew Jesus, who never had a chance, who never stood in line and paid a dollar a hit to pick up a hammer and take a swing. Do you get as tired as I do of trying to explain, Do you think much about Elizabeth Spears. I don't need to ask the answer to the last one, I know he does. And some other things I don't need to ask the answers to either, like what is it you do from the time you wake up until the trustys call lights out at dark, because the real name for Parchman is not Mississippi State Penitentiary like they wrote on the sign but Parchman Farm. It has made a lot of money for the state of Mississippi from what I heard, which I'm thinking lately does not say a whole lot for the state of Mississippi. So I know what they have got him doing at Parchman, he is chopping cotton like the field hands that you drive by and see but never really have looked at, picking and chopping down the long rows with the heat dancing silvery and bright in the still air where they are chopping and picking. Why don't the warden and the trustys worry about letting them out of lock-up? They don't have to worry because they have got that one solved. Nobody can get loose because they have got tracking dogs watching, that were born and raised up for nothing in the earth but sniffing out convicts and running them down. They sit up chained all day just hoping and praying one of the convicts, and I know which one it is they have been watching close lately, will decide he has had as much as he can take and will try to make it to the woods and find a shack or a deep ditch to hide in, and then the tracking dogs understand finally why they are standing there chained, what it is they were born to do. A black convict named Bukka White wrote a song about it one time. Which maybe is the reason for the dream that has been worrying me that I had. I was being driven by a man I could not see through Rome, Mississippi, down the blacktop that leads to the gravel road that leads to the Holiness Church where I asked him to stop. Where I was standing in the doorway but not inside looking at the women in that church and wondering who it was they were praying for, who are always fat and moley, speaking in tongues and flopping like chickens, popping their hairpins out and then falling slain in the spirit like they call it, and somebody finally reaching down and covering them up with one of the blankets they keep stacked on the front pew for people that are slain in the spirit. Standing there seeing how hard they were praying and wondering could it do any good and deciding I think that it was better than nothing and then back on the blacktop again with the heat bouncing up and the rows blurring past, like legs of a giant centipede starting to run together. Passing through the gate like we didn't need to stop and passing the women's part where the wire is not as high and stopping where I knew he was and being inside asking for Bukka White who was the only one that could take me to Don Allen and not finding Bukka White or Don Allen Poole or anybody else I could see and then in the lock-up myself, holding on and biting even the bars that were wide like poles, staring down the cells at all the rest of me's, looking at us looking back at me, held in Parchman Farm. That dream made me wish almost that I was not the cousin of Don Allen Poole, that I had never been inside the Rome Holiness Church, that I was one of the others even, one of the ones not set apart like me and Don Allen and Bukka White who had to leave his wife and baby girls for Parchman. Which the only good thing about is you cannot chop cotton on a chain, it is not like television where they are keeping the lick with one of them singing about silver and gold and laying the track and crossties with the rest of them saying ump in time and swinging the big hammers high and then bringing them down. That is one thing he will never have to do I tell myself but if you have ever chopped cotton in the delta you know it is not much better even off the chain. And it bothers me too lately that the rest of them, the ones like John Cole and the jury ones that voted him in there and the rest of them that love to tell me not to think about Don Allen never seem to get theirs. They sit in the cool while others are smelling the fertilize from the planes always flying over dusting, burning in your nose and stinking. They would not lift a hand, would not pick up a finger to help him out, to wipe the sweat off his face or hand him a cool drink of water. I have heard the Parchman Farm Blues by Bukka White, and he had the right idea. Which makes me think all over again about the dream, about Don Allen, about how when a convict got loose we used to sit and wait after Mama and Daddy had left with knives from the kitchen, me always behind the couch wondering how hard do you have to stick a man to take him down. Is it between the ribs you need to get him, or do you go straight in for the stomach. That's how I looked at it. That's how I used to think. Which is all right, I don't blame me, how could I know? But if a convict was to break out tomorrow I would not be waiting behind the couch with a knife. I would do this, hang a red ribbon out the window just like a woman named Rahab did that was in the Bible. Jericho was a strong city too. I hear them calling me to get dressed because today is Sunday and we are driving to Parchman which means I can take the letters. Which means we drive past the Holiness Church with all the women praying hard as they can for somebody that is trying to bust free somewhere. Which also means we pass the women's prison and the shiny wire and are inside and looking straight at Don Allen, right in his face. But the truth is I am not feeling so great. I am not feeling so hot today. I'll stay here instead and finish the letter I started to him last night because Don Allen understands anyway about things like people being sick. I'll tell him this: I could not make it due to sickness. Your suffering is not forgot. Rahab was not a good woman but did the right thing. Jericho was the strongest city ever built. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "The Projector" by Matthew Franz The blank screen flapped violently rolling itself up the wall. The projector had begun to make that horrible chattering sound. Frames jumped out of order. Faces appeared in duplicate. In the back of the room sat the elderly schoolmarm patiently waiting for the situation to correct itself. The pupils became restless -- eyeing their wristwatches inscribing dead words with their pen-knives. When the film ended (the presentation not quite perfect) they formed shadow-birds on the projector screen blocking the lint-filled beam with their fingers flapping like the slashing blades. And they dug deeper into the wood carving initials like epitaphs. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "At the Party" by Samuel Barasch Amidst, the purplered noise of the sweaty flashing lights and crowds of marijuana pressing too close beer breath screaming over guitars drums distortion and smokey LSD, I saw the strap of the black, felt dress slip and show her perfect milky back. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "Houses" by Tara Calishain I started by loving the windows, moved to shutters opened the wide eyebeams of longing and wrote love songs to mortar palm against brick, hips to wall translated the message of digested stone through chest and belly being sweet with the framework, a statue with back to the road -- with no voice to you I called to your house bribing the gardens and listening endlessly the weary gossip of the surrounding flowers and you became the heretic beyond the dark beyond the shade, beyond intent another framework I hoped would contain me wander through opaque fires and go unpunished. But I am too slim for you to choose there is not enough to me and I'm sorry but the green grass over and under testifies, and tastes sweet -- I love you with all my intensity, and your house loves me. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "Early Spring" by Michael Kei Stewart Blue sky's an intrusion when the cloudy dims and branches softly wave their welcome to the rain. Then the sun's a stranger, and the yellow light is hard upon the poor old snow that waits for water cold to wash it down the drain. Rain turns all to smoky day; the grey clouds close my eyes and turn me back in memory to moors unvisited, and that grey rock where clutched my hands green lichen on the cold, damp rough. These tired beginnings are like sleep: When seasons change we want just five more minutes to remain ourselves before becoming something new. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "The Charred Language" by Matthew Franz I am provided new hope by the sharp straight sticks bark peeling from the trees unwrapping itself down the trunk layer by layer the moments the residual years the dead flesh cleansed by peroxide-foam. Lower the ear slightly to hear this silent language bubbling anew. Waft the mediciny aura to clogged nostrils. Probe the dark cavities. Feel the eyelids of reconstructed dinosaurs open. Spray the bones with distilled water. Splash the tarnishing of time: foreign bodies bonded where the flesh used to prickle where hair stood on end. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ A Review of Dr. Seuss' "Green Eggs and Ham" by Matt Mason _Green Eggs And Ham_ is a book which certainly caught me by surprise. I hardly expected a book with a bright orange cover and a goofy feline in the upper-right corner saying "I Can Read It All By Myself: Beginner Books" to be such a stunningly frank analysis of human sexual maturation. But Seuss certainly defies the reader's expectations, and he does so wonderfully. The book begins with one character rolling across the pages with a sign reading "I am Sam" (3) and then "Sam I am" (7). Seuss starts off with a blatant Judeo-Christian Yahweh image, recalling God's response to Moses on Mt. Sinai when Moses asked who was speaking to him, and God replied with a resounding, "I AM" (Exodus 3:14). Here, Seuss gives us a softer "I am," cleverly mixing the Christian with the pre-Christian in the form of Sam, a character who begins with the omnipotent cry of the Biblical God but whose name and playfulness hint that he is also to be considered a Pan-like character. We then see Sam approach the book's other character, an unnamed Everyman whom he offers the green eggs and ham. The eggs are clearly symbolic of the female ovum, the ham (the meat) being the male penis, and the green coloration is a common symbol of springtime, new life, the awakening of sexual urges. So Sam is not simply offering food, Sam is questioning our young Everyman about sexual desires. At first, Everyman only sees these urges as an unwelcome distraction, proclaiming, "...That Sam-I-am!/ I do not like/ that Sam-I-am!" and then denouncing the green eggs and ham, striking out at and denying the strangeness and discomfort of the biological stirrings working within (9). And so Sam begins testing Everyman. He begins in a simple yet existential way, asking, "Would you like them/ here or there?" effectively asking if Everyman would prefer that sex be in a conservative, imaginable fashion in the "here" or in the unexpected, the different, distant, far-out "there" (14). But Everyman refuses to even consider it, turning away from Sam. No sooner has Everyman's back turned, though, and Sam appears again and demands attention. This time, he asks, "Would you like them/ in a house?" (19). Sam attempts to see if Everyman's doubts about sex stem from the fear of possibly starting a family and being financially unable to care for them; if Everyman was prosperous, owned a house, would that soothe Everyman's negativity towards sex? Sam also takes this opportunity to ask, "Would you like them/ with a mouse?" indicating a timid partner for Everyman (19). Sam wonders if the sexual experience scares Everyman, and perhaps a submissive, non-threatening partner, symbolized by the mouse, would be what Everyman needs to be comfortable with his/her own sexuality. But, again, the answer is resoundingly negative, a denouncement of the natural gifts represented the by green eggs and ham. Our plucky little Pan is far from satisfied, though, and returns in Everyman's path, asking, "Would you eat them in a box?" (22). His earlier question about the house was, perhaps, not relevant; so Sam wonders if Everyman would prefer simple, more hardy circumstances. Nothing fancy, nothing expensive, just the spare setting of a box. Like before, he joins this with a second question, asking, "Would you eat them with a fox", an obvious counter to the timid mouse-partner of before (22). Now Sam asks if Everyman would prefer a wilder partner, someone beautiful and inventive; the fox representing not only beauty in the American fashion, but the wisdom and cunning of older, European folklore. But Everyman simply repudiates all of Sam's offers: Not in a box. Not with a fox. Not in a house. Not with a mouse. I would not eat them here or there. I would not eat them anywhere. I would not eat green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-am. (24) Everyman claims empirical control over these boiling urges. By stating, "I would not eat them anywhere", Everyman steadfastly refuses to give in to any aspect of sexual curiosity. Even so, we can see that it's unsettling, as the frantic and lengthy reply to Sam shows. And then Sam tries a different angle. He wonders if what Everyman needs to "turn on" is something technological, modern, perhaps electrical or synthetic. He asks the bold question, "Would you? Could you/ in a car?" (26). Sam hints in Freudian terms that perhaps sex could spur on Everyman's movement of the ego through the transportation symbol of the car. But, as before, Everyman rejects this. So Sam counters with, "You may like them/ in a tree!" (28). If technology may seem a bit shaky to Everyman, it seems logical that nature, symbolized by the tree, is what it takes to make this Everyman recognize and respond to his inner stirrings, inner stirrings which can be said to be nothing more than common and natural in all living creatures. Steadfast and determined, Everyman again rejects Sam's questions, but the lengthy answer (again rejecting the box, fox, house, mouse, etc.) shows that Sam's (nature's) persistence is unsettling Everyman. So Sam immediately hits with, "A train! A train!/ A train! A train!/ Could you, would you, on a train?" (33). Sam is tempting Everyman by exclaiming (four times! just like there are four compass directions, four corners of the world, etc.) a symbol of even larger ego movement than the car! Here, Seuss uses a strong symbol of fertility; with its phallic shape and sexual rhythm, when trains were first introduced to less developed nations, sometimes women would gather near the train tracks and lift their skirts as the train passed, believing the virile train would fertilize them. So here, Sam tests to see if what Everyman desires is great power, growth, and fertility. Again, Everyman curtly refuses, lamenting, "Not on a train!! Not in a tree!/ Not in a car! Sam! Let me be!/ I would not, could not, in a box," etc. (34). This train section's placement is particularly important. In Sam's inquest, I mark nine clear sections (counting the car and tree as one section, similar to "box and fox" and "house and mouse" since they are clearly paired up as opposites) and this is the fifth, the central one. This section clarifies that the issue preventing Everyman from giving in to Sam's questioning is deeper than a physical impotence, as Everyman is here symbolically offered great virility. It's Seuss' way of letting us know that we should be looking deeper when Everyman replies "I would not, could not." Sam then continues, testing to see if what Everyman wants is mystery, perhaps danger, asking, "Would you, could you, in the dark?" (36). There's no reason to believe that Sam here refers to a sinful dark, it seems more a darkness where inhibitions are lowered, a more soothing venue in which Everyman could feel more comfortable and less self-conscious about sexual expression. It could also be a dark of fear, as Sam must honestly admit that sexual expression has many frightening aspects in the forms of diseases, unwanted pregnancies, the pain of giving birth, etc.; Sam moves from the easier, fluffier approach to a more honest one with this. And Everyman gives the constant reply, "I would not, could not..." (37). Sam then tries to see if sex for more hedonistic reasons would appeal to Everyman. "Would you, could you,/ in the rain?" (38). In almost all mythologies, water represents life, as that's what rivers and spring rains bring to agricultural societies. So would Everyman have sex if, not just being life-creating in the form of offspring, it were a life-giving act for Everyman, a refreshment, a germination, a baptism into new life, new awareness? Again, No. Here, then, Sam stops and asks simply, "You do not like/ green eggs and ham?" (40) to the expected reply of, "I do not/ like them,/ Sam-I-am" (41). I find it fascinating that Sam here returns to the basic question. This underscores how far Sam has come from that basic question and shown many facets to human sexuality. And then Sam continues, "Could you, would you,/ with a goat?" a surprising and pivotal question at this point (42). At first we wonder why Seuss would bring in such a bizarre animal here, but the answer, of course, comes from the ancient Greeks. As most competent drama students could tell you, the Greeks had a ceremony where they would take a goat and ritually place the collective sins and problems of the village on the poor beast, then beat it and send it away as a purification of the village. Here, Sam tries to show sex as a purifying act, asking Everyman to see that sins and hang-ups have no place here, they can be exorcised as God is not the prudish God of some interpretations but an earthier God who asks us to embrace our sexual natures. And then, finally, Sam asks, "Would you, could you,/ on a boat" (44). Sam indicates a more massive movement of the ego than either the car or the train of before. Slower, yes, but larger. Plus the entire purpose of the boat is to travel on top of the water, on top of life-giving forces vastly larger than the rain Sam brought up earlier. Yet Everyman still replies: I would not, could not, on a boat. I will not, will not, with a goat. I will not eat them in the rain. I will not eat them on a train. Not in the dark! Not in a tree! Not in a car! You let me be! I do not like them in a box. I do not like them with a fox. I will not eat them in a house. I do not like them with a mouse. I do not like them here or there. I do not like them ANYWHERE! (46) I do not like green eggs and ham! (49) I do not like them, Sam-I-am. (50) As Everyman says this, notice how it slows down from an orderly list of what Everyman does not like to the shifting of the structure into smaller, enjambed lines. This change is actually best conveyed by the illustration which Seuss uses at this point in the book. His drawing shows the boat, which Sam had just brought up, sinking to leave him and Everyman immersed in an ocean: no longer floating atop life and nature and mystery but actually swimming in it! Here, the narrative leaves the theoretical, as Sam no longer asks, he states: You do not like them. So you say. Try them! Try them! And you may. Try them and you may, I say. (53) And Everyman finally gives in! Out of sheer exhaustion, he takes a bite and is immediately electrified: Say! I like green eggs and ham! I do! I like them, Sam-I-am! And I would eat them in a boat. And I would eat them with a goat... (59) And I will eat them in the rain. And in the dark. And on a train. And in a car. And in a tree. They are so good, so good, you see! (60) So I will eat them in a box. And I will eat them with a fox. And I will eat them in a house. And I will eat them with a mouse. And I will eat them here and there. Say! I will eat them ANYWHERE! (61) It is a long journey, but Seuss shows that the persistence of nature (or our God-given biological urges) can eventually wear down anyone. As Everyman goes through the full journey of sexual maturation, Everyman discovers all the things that sexual expression can be, until, in that climactic scene, everything falls into place; Everyman is both worn down by Sam's persistence and fully aware of the complexity of all the facets to a blooming sexuality, causing Everyman to try and then to joyfully embrace the "green eggs and ham." Through this simple narrative, Dr. Seuss has created a brilliant account of human coming- of-age. It also contains a message that sex is not something to feel ashamed of, for did not even the Judeo-Christian God ask us to "go forth and multiply" (Genesis 9:7)? Seuss shows us that a well-informed, even skeptically approached sexuality can be a good thing, as this is no ignorant, uninformed desire; Everyman is careful, realizing all that sex can be before embracing it! +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "A Girl and Her Dog" by Mark Bothum DAY 1 "That dog of yours is completely useless." "He's a dog. What's he supposed to do? " "Just look at him. What's he doing now? Is that legal? Wow, he's really going at it. Not in Texas. That's gotta be illegal in Texas." "How many beers have you had? And I thought he was both of ours. You even picked him out. Said he was a li'l cutey. But geez, you're right, does he ever get tired of that?" "I wouldn't. Hey, you realize he ain't got any thumbs? He'd be a lot more useful around here if he had thumbs. Maybe do some chores." "You should quit drinking. I'll talk to the vet again tomorrow." "You sure talk to the vet a lot, what's the deal?" "We've got a lot of pets. Noticed?" "Just the smell." "Drop it." "Okay." DAY 2 "The vet says there's a Procedure." "What's with the capital 'p'?" "Huh?" "You capitalized 'procedure'." "Well screw you! You put it in quotes!" "I did not! Those aren't quotes! Those are...I forget. " "Never mind. The vet says he can help us." "Help us what? Are we moving again?" "You're drunk. We're getting thumbs for the dog, remember?" "Oh. Sure. Thumbs. Have we located a donor?" "You need help. AA maybe. No donor, he's got a tail." "Why use his? You've got plenty to spare." DAY 7 "Jesus, he's got thumbs, and fingers. Kinda furry though." "I talked to the vet. We decided that just a thumb would be pointless." "You decided? No wonder it took the whole tail. What did this cost me?" "Seventeen thousand dollars. And change." "Seventeen thousand dollars? We had seventeen thousand dollars?" "Well, no. I sold the boat." "We had a boat?" "Well kind of. It was your mother's boat. She died last week." "My mother died? That's...and nobody told me?" "Your sister called. You were drunk. I said you were at work." "Thanks. I think. Why didn't you tell me?" "About your mother?" "No! Dammit, I loved that boat." "Would you have sold it?" "Never!" "See?" DAY 27 "I taught him to pay the bills." "Get outta here." "Really! There's this extra cool Windows program. "I'm sure. Bill Gates can't run Windows well, but our dog can?" "It's really neat. Little icons flash when the bills are due." "And the dog knows this?" "Yes! See? The electric bill's due, and the little lightbulb comes on." "Yeah?" "Yeah. And the grocery store flashes this little doggy bone icon." "This is getting really weird." "It gets worse." "Should I care about any of this?" "Probably not." DAY 41 "Hey! What's the deal? I just got home!" "Oh. Uh, he drank all your beer." "Pardon me?" "The dog got into the fridge and drank all your beer, okay? I'm sorry." "Where's he at now?" "Sleeping it off on the bed. On my side." "Why your side?" "Because my side doesn't have vomit on it." "My side of the bed has vomit on it?" "Yes." "Is that why I've been sleeping on the couch?" "No." DAY 55 "So how was your day?" "It was great. They canceled my project. Yours?" "The dog's been depressed lately, so I got him a pet." "Our dog has a pet? "Why not? I got him a cockatoo." "What the hell's that? Is that legal, in Texas?" "We're not in Texas, you idiot. But yes, it's legal." "There's a little black dog in our backyard. I can see it from here." "That's ours, did you happen to stop at the bar?" "Maybe. He's digging up the flower bed, should I shoot him?" "You really are an idiot. He's planting tomatoes." "Dogs don't plant tomatoes, they piss on them. I was gonna do that." "You were going to do what? Plant them or piss on them? And just when?" "Oh. Nice. You know I'm overloaded. Gimme a break." "Right. You've got 'action items' and 'tequila' on your daily planner." "That's a fairly negative attitude. You may need counseling." "Ninety five dollars an hour." "Then again, you're probably fine." DAY 72 "What's he doing on my computer?" "Surfing the Net." "Surfing the Net?" "Surfing the Net." "Surfing the Net?" "Surfing the Net. You're almost making sense. Bar burn down?" "What do you know about that?" "Nothing. Directly." "What about him?" "Him? He's a dog. What could he know?" "I think he stole my credit card." "No, that was me. You weren't using it anyway." "It was maxed!" "The dog and I fixed that." "Fixed? You can't do that. Wait. Did I save any money?" "No. But between the two of us we got your limit increased." "What about the interest rate?" "What about it?" DAY 98 "He screwed up some of my directories. What the hell is he doing?" "You're the one said they went graphical 'so women could use it too'." "I didn't get slapped for that one?" "Check your right temple." "Christ, that feels like a burn." "Fireplace poker." "You smacked me with a hot poker?" "No, the dog did. He's getting a stronger grip." "Why did he do that?" "You're the one that had him neutered. He's very Equal Rights." "He has political opinions?" "No, not really. He just doesn't like you very much." "But, I buy his food! I support his ass!" "Well, not anymore. He has a separate account." "Where did he get any money?" "From me." "Where did you get any money?" "From you." "Oh. Then I guess it's okay. Wait. Where did I get any money?" "From your mother." "I think I need a drink." DAY 100 "Ms. Brown? Hello? Pick up if you're there...okay, well this message is just to tell you that we intend to continue the search for at least another week. If your husband's out there, we'll find him. We've got some of the best dogs on the West Coast involved. Although I must say, that dog you volunteered seems to be leading the pack around by it's nose. It's uncanny..." +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "Post-Suicide" by Tara Calishain Fingers spread, gripping the cold hips heavy on the plaster, head down eyes clenched like fists, teeth showing in a threat-grin, smiling at the floor. The phone's ringing. Who is it? I-don't-know-they-hung-up. They'll find me in a fetal rictus being born and protesting all along a hydrogen bond is my only lover to keep me flesh, agony, hips to floor. The phone's ringing. Who is it? I-don't-know-they-hung-up. Now if it was a noise or something, a gun or howl something they could examine something they could pronounce incorrect instead of this mosaic insanity The phone's ringing. Never mind instead of this mosaic insanity they could fix me but I hear there's no cure for this. I hear it makes your spine shrivel I hear it makes your eyes turn colors I hear it sets you in cancer for life. Maybe if I freeze carefully maybe if I make it a magic ceremony maybe if I break without bothering anybody No time like the present, no shrine like a carpet Fingers digging through the weave Eyes sealed and streaming Face burrowed in the maelstrom smiling at the floor. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "In the Attic" by William C. Burns, Jr. I remember you The smell of you on the sheets The feel of you slick with sweat A parade swelling in the summer heat Pounding with noise I whisper your name in the dusty attic Nothing moves +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "Girl at the Prow of the Ferry" by Helen Crombet-Beolens Holding your baby-doll dress so as not to expose your skin, you stand at the prow of the ferry, knowing you are observed. There is about you a self-conscious posing as you stand and stare at the scene before you-- balancing the beauty against discomfort. I would not choose to stand so long, though I understand why you do. The scene almost demands this sacrifice of privacy as a declaration of fidelity. The winds whip around and across you, teasing your dress as your hand uncomfortably holds the skirt in place-- all the while trying desperately to appear casual as you do it. What right have we, the observers of observers, to allow such painful consciousness to mar the view? +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "Balloon People" by Arthur Shotmind Their heads are filled with helium. That's why they float Above the rest of us With their feet dangling. They are the balloon people. Hummingbirds are their enemies. They call their fathers Dad, Never Pop. They fight a lot, But, unless they're cornered, They never fight dirty Or blow things Out of proportion. Sometimes, though, They seem to enjoy Making derogatory remarks About solid-headed folk. They are not good dancers, But their songs are among The merriest on earth. They giggle and blush If you talk to them About freedom. Last week one of them Forgot to stay outdoors. Now he's stuck at the top Of my cathedral ceiling. You can't simply climb a step ladder And pull the guy down. He'll just bite and kick and scratch And mutter nasty things about your sister. But eventually he'll just shrivel up And fall to the floor. That happened once before And I came home one afternoon And found the dog Playing with the poor devil's Little paisley bow tie. I yelled at the dog And accused him of killing The little balloon man. The dog just stared at me and growled In a silly, high-pitched voice. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "The Glint" by Matthew Franz 1. It has been alluded to in past conversations discussed in darkness the vision forming while you circled the body (your compass needle spinning) Inklings, agitation -- the voice behind your ears whispering The aftertaste on your tongue the echo of dead words lost in the vacuum 2. Slowly (but not as unexpectedly as you might think) the idea surfaced, emerged like the naming of an era Inevitable, predestined, perhaps even deliberate but logic, religion, the sciences of delusion provide no answers Because you wished for it wept and fasted, wept and prayed nearly tearing your hair from its roots Studying the prophecy ignorant of the consequences You failed to see how the audience was growing restless how the language had become a mere catalog of verbiage They spoke to hear the sound of their voices They listened with forced smiles and subversive laughter impatiently looking at their wristwatches wishing it would soon end hoping for a distraction But now it seems so timeless as if it were ever different The past erases itself unless assigned a purpose 3. What is left in the world of the quotation mark? the annotated source, the etcetera? where the unique is but a black form, a shadow-puppet tangling its strings in the wind What has become of the comma, the period the exclamation mark? the unmailed letters? the telephones left ringing? There is nothing but the sound of muffled breathing on the line 4. The void has been extended indefinitely, perhaps infinitely These glass walls thick and clinky (like an antique Coke bottle) The sucking of air slowly pumped from the bell jar You cloud the glass with your breath (though breathing has become more difficult) wipe away the fog with your squeegee-hand Curse your reflection in the mirror The greenhouse-sun soaks through warming the air though eventually it will become cold & quite comfortable You notice the eyes that glisten, pierce how they sparkle on the lens, penetrating They melt, burst, run down the face in the shuddering glare like the beetles you cooked as a child holding the magnifying glass to the sun to focus the beam +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ "Company" by Thomas J. Hubschman Some people are hopeless. Jack and I have known each other since we roomed together in college. I've been wining and dining him and his various wives for the better part of two decades. Never once did I suggest he was an irresponsible child, a big baby who bolted from every serious relationship he's ever been in. I even let him sleep on my sofa after each of his marital fallings-out. I loaned him money (some of which he actually paid back). I let him borrow my cars, which he ran into the ground as if they were his own -- correction: as if they were _not_ his own. I put up with his tirades against capitalism, organized religion, and anything else which he imagined I held dear. I never forgot his kid's birthday or failed to buy his current wife a Christmas present. But no more. We have him over two or three times a year. He lives in Park Slope now. Jennie and I are still in the same brownstone we bought in Cobble Hill when Jack lived over this way with his first wife. Carol was a sweetheart, pure Marymount but without the Mounty's sharp tongue or prissy manners. She doted on Jack, actually supported him so he could paint his watercolors. He's a good artist, though not as good as he likes to think. Until last Saturday we hadn't seen him since the summer. We spent most of August in New Hampshire at an old farm my partner owns. I offered our brownstone for that time to Jack and his present mate, but he declined -- said the "vibes" were wrong. He always brings a bottle of wine to these get-togethers, the same generic Bordeaux Rouge. I think he's trying to make a statement: "I'm just an ordinary bloke, a man of the people." I don't mind that he doesn't bring anything better than vin ordinaire. I couldn't care less if he brought nothing at all. In fact, I'd prefer it that way. It's not _my_ fault nobody buys his paintings. I was standing at one of the big windows on the parlor floor when I spotted him and Mona coming down the block, Jack in his twenty-year-old raincoat, Mona in something off the rack from the Salvation Army. The wine was tucked under his arm. They were neither of them talking, and Jack looked especially glum. I remember thinking, 'Uh, oh,' because since the baby arrived last January, we don't have a room to spare. 'It's the YMCA for you this time, my friend,' I said, turning my attention to the Coopers' West Indian cleaning woman who was shooing a scrawny stray from the garbage cans in the areaway. Which reminded me of something that happened the week before. But I'll come to that later. "Something for the spirit," Jack said, handing me the wine. I mouthed some words of gratitude, noting the $2.99 price tag. But subtlety is lost on that man. He beamed as if he had just presented me with a '67 Chateauneuf du Pape. Then Mona offered her cheek and I suggested that we have an aperitif in the parlor. We redecorated last spring. Rewired the entire house, had plumbers and plasterers in, and finally restored the oak parquet which was laid on original cherry planks at the turn of the century. With the paint job, the work damn near cost a second mortgage, but the house's value increased fifty percent. Not that we're thinking of selling. Tanya's only in kindergarten, and Bobby starts Trinity High School in the fall. We also bought a new sofa and armchairs -- ordered the patterns directly from Braunschweig. To fill up some of the white space on our new walls we bought a couple oil paintings from a local artist I'd had my eye on. One is a huge floral arrangement, slightly out of focus, the other a beach scene. They each measure four foot square, but you'd have to see our parlor walls to appreciate how well they look. I made the mistake of hoping Jack would approve. I should have known better. It's not as if I don't have plenty of his own pictures hanging about, although not in the parlor where they would be lost in the sheer expanse of that mammoth plastering job. He'd already seen the oils last summer when we had him and Mona over for pesto and steaks in the yard. He wrinkled up his nose at the still life before turning his attention to the beach scene. For a moment I thought he actually might say something positive. But he just grinned maliciously. "You can almost feel the sand between your toes," he said, and asked if I had any beer in the house. He never even glanced at the pictures this time. He just plopped down on the sofa and crossed the legs of the old polyester slacks he wears for these occasions. He had on a pale blue cashmere pullover -- Mona's Christmas present. He needed a haircut but knows he's still good-looking enough that it doesn't matter. Mona herself had on a dark sweater- and-skirt combination. She's a few years older than Jack, but still quite attractive -- lucky for her. I didn't like her at first, but she's grown on me. I've even come to feel sorry for her. Jack was a bit of a pill to live with twenty years ago. I don't imagine he's gotten any better. "Cinzano and soda?" I asked, feeling more than a merely social need for a drink myself. Mona agreed, but Jack gave me the amused look he puts on to make me feel as if I've just made a fool of myself. "Budweiser for the gentleman?" I went back downstairs for the drinks, leaving poor Jennie to hold the fort. When I returned Jack was holding forth about co-oping in the Slope -- greedy landlords and Yuppies who will pay any rent and drive honest citizens like himself out of the neighborhood. He hasn't forgot that I was a landlord myself until my salary was such that I could make the mortgage payments without renting out the top two floors. "Why don't you try another part of the city?" I suggested. "It's still possible to find a reasonable rent in Greenpoint or . . . Long Island City." He eyed me icily. He always brings out the tease in me. It was Mona who broke the silence. "No way," she said, most of her Cinzano gone. "This is as far from Manhattan as I go." "Greenpoint is actually closer to Wall Street than where we live now," Jack told her. "Makes no difference. I'm not moving anyplace other than Manhattan. You can _have_ the boroughs." Jack gave her an even chillier version of the cold glare he had just shown me. It's hard to gauge the state of a relationship from just a few minutes conversation, but on the basis of what I'd seen of Jack's previous matings, I gave this one another six-months-to-a-year. We headed back downstairs for dinner. Jennie had prepared prawn cocktails, followed by filets minions bordelaises. I put together the salad myself. We don't eat like that every night, and I said so. But Jack's comment that this was the first decent meal he'd had in weeks did nothing to improve the climate between him and Mona. "I made you lasagna just last week." "So you did." I offered them Italian bread that's still baked fresh every hour at a shop on Henry Street. Mona glared angrily into her dish of prawns, but now that he had successfully insulted her, Jack's own temper was much improved. "Did you tell Jack and Mona about the visitor we had this week?" Jennie asked. She had been bouncing up and down to see about the filets. I was grateful for the change of subject, but I would not have raised this particular one on my own. "It was the oddest thing." I went on to relate how I had heard the doorbell ring when I was doing some touch-up work in the kids' bathroom on the third floor. A moment later Tanya came bounding up the stairs and said there was a "dark man" at the door. I thought immediately of the plasterer who still had work to finish on the basement level, and cursed under my breath because we were expecting company that evening. But it wasn't the plasterer. It wasn't anyone I had ever seen before. "Yes?" I said through the glass door. The young man -- he looked to be in his middle twenties, "dark" all right, but not negroid -- was smiling broadly. He was dressed in jeans and a flak jacket. It was a damp, chilly day, but he didn't look especially cold. "Yes?" I said again, having no intention at that point of opening the door; there had been a number of break-ins in the neighborhood recently. But he kept on smiling and pointed a long brown finger at his chest, then at me, as if there were no chance of his being heard through the glass. By this time I had him figured for a salesman or, worse, Jehovah's Witness. We could have gone on with our charade indefinitely, so I decided to open the door. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I figured I outweighed him by twenty pounds. "I would _never_ open my door to a stranger," Mona put in. "I don't even open it for Jack unless I can see him plainly through the peephole." "Which you rarely can." "I'm nearsighted," she replied. "If _you_ were nearsighted you'd understand." I fumbled with the key -- we rarely receive visitors on the parlor level -- until I finally succeeded in worrying it through the ancient lock. The man never hesitated. He was into the vestibule even before the door was fully open. I positioned myself between him and the inside entrance. "Yes?" I said again, this time with authority. "Hi," he replied, offering his hand and an even brighter version of his big smile. His teeth were whiter than Tanya's piano keys. His eyes were black. "My name's Alonzo. I'm homeless. I've been asking folks in the neighborhood if they can help me out with some canned goods or leftovers they might have in their fridge. I used to have an apartment on Court Street, but the landlord evicted everyone so he could renovate for condos. I've been out of work for more than a year since I injured my back. I'd appreciate any help you can give." I like to think I'm no fool when it comes to spotting a con man. But it was only afterward that I realized I should have asked what he would do with canned goods if he was homeless, not to mention how he was surviving with just that cotton jacket to keep him warm. I guess I was hypnotized by his big grin. Even so, my mind was working overtime calculating how far I was from the nearest weapon (the poker in the parlor fireplace would do), whether it was likely he had a knife or gun concealed under his jacket, and if Tanya was still up on the third floor or, more likely, was hovering just behind me, her thumb in her mouth. Of course, I left out these deliberations in the story I told Jack and Mona. As I said before, if Jennie hadn't raised the subject I would not have brought it up on my own. I knew Jack would try to turn the incident into some kind of joke at my expense. I told Tanya to run downstairs and tell her mother we had company. Half a minute later Jennie appeared, in her usual dither, but hardly expecting to find this dark stranger in her parlor. "This is Alonzo," I said. Even before I could finish the introduction, he was pumping my wife's hand and treating her to his hundred-watt smile. "He's a homeless person," I added, and sure enough, Jennie looked as if I had said he was an Egyptian mummy. But Alonzo's grin never flagged. "He stopped by to ask if we had any extra food we could spare." Comprehension finally registered on Jennie's pale brow. "You're collecting for the homeless? Why, that's wonderful." "No, ma'am," he corrected, "I _am_ homeless. I'm collecting for myself." And then he gave her the same smooth rap he had laid on me when I first opened the door. I figured this game had gone on long enough, so I told my wife to see if we couldn't spare something from the pantry. "Aren't there also cold cuts in the fridge?" I called after her as she was hastening back to the stairwell. She hesitated, showing a look that made me want to burst out laughing despite my own apprehensions -- I still didn't know what Alonzo's real game was, and by this time he was ensconced in my parlor, having a look at the beach scene. "Would you like to . . . sit down?" I asked, indicating a wooden rocker that wouldn't be offended by his weathered denim. But he favored our new Braunschweig sofa. He fingered the lush pattern critically. "Very nice." "How long have you lived in the area?" I asked. "I mean, before you were evicted." He spotted the still life and got up to have a closer look. When he replied, it was in the manner of someone who had more important things on his mind. "Two, three years." "You're not sure?" He completed his appraisal of the still-life. "What difference does it make?" he said, his grin gone stale around the edges. Then, perhaps realizing how I, his benefactor, might take his offhanded tone, he added, "I mean, what does _time_ matter? It's all karma anyway." He sat down again, this time in the rocker, and looked as if he had no intention of going anywhere else for the rest of the day. "You like it here?" I replied that we liked it well enough, but I was wondering what was taking Jennie so long to throw a few cans into a paper bag. "I don't come from these parts originally," he said. "You can probably tell by my accent." Actually, I hadn't noticed he had any accent at all -- a sure sign, I then realized, that he was not a native New Yorker. "Where _do_ you hail from?" I asked. His dark eyes -- they had become oddly bright -- fixed on me as if for the first time. "I already told you," he said, "I'm _homeless_." Just then Jennie appeared, staggering under the weight of two full shopping bags. I never asked our visitor to clarify his response, and he didn't seem inclined to pursue the subject. I gave him something short of the bum's rush to the door, but he made a point of putting down his shopping bags on the top of the stoop and shaking hands in full view of the neighbors. "My _God_!" Mona said when I finished the story. "He could have been an ax-murderer!" "I doubt that," I replied, sipping some pinot noir. The steaks had been first-class. "He was too skinny to have something as bulky as an ax concealed on his person." "Even so . . ." "More likely he was putting you on," Jack said, helping himself to the scalloped potatoes. "Putting me on how?" "Goofing on you, man. Conning you." "Oh, I don't think he was," Jennie said, shocked as always at any suggestion of mendacity. "Do _you_, honey?" I made a reach for the creamed cauliflower and shrugged. "The thought crossed my mind. But what difference does it make? If he actually needed food, then we did a good deed. If he didn't, what did we lose -- a few cans of tuna?" I spoke offhandedly but was expressing a conclusion that had taken me the better part of a week to come to. I had felt very foolish indeed when I still thought the entire episode might have been an elaborate joke. "Of course, he may also have been casing the place," Jack said. But I was tired of the subject. I turned toward my wife, who had become very quiet, and suggested that we have coffee up in the parlor. After we were settled again on the sofas, Tanya came down for her goodnight kiss. Mona immediately lost her preoccupied look and opened her arms wide to the child. Jack watched with ill-concealed disdain. Mona had no children of her own, although her first marriage had lasted fifteen years. Jack had a son living in Connecticut, a nice boy a couple years older than my Robert. As I watched Mona fuss over Tanya I realized that she probably wanted nothing more from life than a child of her own. _Fat chance_, I thought, keeping one eye on Jack, who preferred even the beach scene to that of his woman showing affection to another human being. After Tanya had headed upstairs for the night, Jack asked, "How much did you pay for them?" nodding toward the still-life. "Actually, we got a good deal. The artist was relocating and wanted to travel as light as possible. We probably paid less than half what they're actually worth." I had no intention of giving him a dollar amount. No price would have seemed right to someone who hadn't sold any of his own work since last year's Promenade exhibit. Besides, I _liked_ the paintings. I brought out a bottle of kirsch to wash down the coffee, put some evensong on the stereo, and as we all sat sipping, a rosy glow seemed to permeate the room, a sense of good fellowship, however slightly out of focus, like my still- life. I reached for Jennie's hand, thinking how lucky I was to have a loving wife and family, good health, and, yes, an old friend like Jack, however trying he could be. Then through a haze of ecclesiastical reverberation I heard, "Of course, the same fate could happen to any one of us here. The way things are going, we could find our asses out on the street just like Alonzo." "What are you talking about?" "You don't believe there's a 'safety net' that catches us if a real calamity strikes? Suppose you fell ill or lost your job because of -- I don't know," he gestured with our Swedish crystal "-- professional misconduct. It isn't only doctors who get sued for malpractice, you know. Or, take my own case. Where would I be if Mona lost her job and couldn't find another?" My mood was ruined. I suspected that whatever ideas I had been putting into Jennie's mind for later were also in jeopardy. "What are you talking about? Even if we did lose my income temporarily, Jennie could take up the slack. Just as _you_ could," I added, no longer concerned about stepping on his delicate ego. "Suppose you both got ill at the same time? Suppose one, or even both of you, were in a serious accident? It happens, you know." "Yes, of course it happens. And when it does people fall back on their savings, or their insurance, or in the last resort on their families." "Your brother lives in New Mexico. Would you be willing to relocate to New Mexico?" "If I had to, certainly," I said, feeling my wife's fingers tightening on my own. "My God, Jack, you have this maudlin imagination that always thinks the worst. I mean the preposterous!" "It's not so preposterous. There are thousands of people on the streets of this city who would have also thought the idea 'preposterous' if you told them a couple years ago they would be sleeping on subway gratings. What about your Alonzo? Didn't you say he had a good job before he lost his apartment?" "He was obviously lying. You said yourself he was a con man." "Then, why did you give him food?" Mona let out a big sigh and looked at her watch. When she did, the animosity I had been feeling toward her mate suddenly included her as well. "To get rid of him," I said. My wife turned toward me with saucer eyes. "Really? You didn't believe him?" "Well, I did and I didn't. Giving him what he asked for just seemed the easiest way to get him out of our hair. Look," I said to Jack, "what are we arguing about anyway?" "Who's arguing? You just got taken, man, pure and simple. You feel foolish, but you don't want to admit it. It's a human reaction." "Thank you very much, but I don't think I need you to tell me what's human." Jennie pinched my arm as if I were a sleepwalker heading toward an open window. "Actually," Jack went on, "you're right. People like you _don't_ have anything to worry about. It's only poor bastards like Alonzo who end up on the street. _You'll_ weather any kind of calamity, and your kids will go to Ivy League colleges. That's what the American Dream is all about. Your own father was a laborer who broke his ass so you could become a professional. You send your kids to private schools instead of those retarded parochial schools we had to go to. Your kids meet the right people and become high-powered business types. You don't imagine they'll settle for being lawyers or doctors, do you? Hell, the professions are for the children of Jews and immigrants." Never mind that he had already done a 180-degree turn about Alonzo. Never mind that we were both drunk enough to be able to claim afterward that anything we said should not be held against us. _In vino veritas_, I say. The next thing I knew I was on my feet, heading for the same parlor entrance which hadn't been opened since I let Alonzo in. "Here's your coats." "Gerald!" Jennie cried in protest. Jack accepted his ragged raincoat with a sour grin. We were both swaying from the kirsch, but I had already decided that if he tried to throw a punch I would hit him right back. He did nothing of the kind. He put on his coat, then helped Mona into hers with more solicitude than he had shown her all evening. She looked too terrified to speak, but just as I was about see them out the door she turned toward me, looking as if I might hit _her_, and asked if she could please use the bathroom. Suddenly I felt like an ogre. "Of course," I replied. "And I'll call you a cab." "No need," Jack said. "We'll take the bus." There was an uncomfortable minute while we waited for Mona. Jennie asked nervously about Jack's son and the boy's mother. Jennie and she had been rather close for a while, but after Carol and Jack separated she avoided us for some reason. I still felt bad about how I had just acted, but there was not the slightest trace of anger on Jack's handsome face. Mona joined us again, wearing a fresh application of lipstick. I was sorry for the scare I had given her. "Come see us again soon," I said, leaning toward her freshly powdered cheek. But she averted her face, leaving my kiss hanging in midair. Neither of them said good night -- not even to Jennie, who was close to tears. "Goodbye and good riddance," I said as I watched them walk down the block, Jack's arm through Mona's to keep her from tripping on the flagstones. I haven't heard from Jack since and I have no intention of calling. Jennie's asked if she should go ahead with the plans we had for a surprise party to celebrate his fortieth birthday. I told her to put it on hold. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ About the Authors o Samuel Barasch (baraschs@stu.beloit.edu) is currently fininshing his last year at Beloit College where he is a computer science major. He has started Beloit's own internet literary journal, _Highbeams_. It can be found at http://stu.beloit.edu/~highbe/ He is planning to have this piece printed in a magazine called _Poettechnitians_. o Mark Bothum (mark@intermec.com) is originally from Klamath Falls, Oregon. Mark dropped out of school in his junior year to pursue a career 'shooting pool and driving around in old trucks.' He is now somewhat surprised to find himself employed by a Fortune 500 mega-company near Seattle, Washington. o William C. Burns, Jr. (burnswcb@gvltec.gvltec.edu) is an Artist, Poet and Engineer (APE). Poetic and illustrative works have appeared on the cover of _Ebbing Tide_, _The Morpo Review_, _The New Press_, _Beyond the Moon_ and _Sparks On Line_. Having no shame, Bill has held public readings at the local Barnes & Noble and Open Book book stores. He is indigenous to the eastern part of the planet and sustains his family teaching electrical engineering courses. Other occupations have included pumping diesel, mining coal, peddling heavy equipment and fixing traffic lights. o Tara Calishain (copper@mercury.interpath.net) fixes computers and does marketing consultant work for a living. When she's not doing that, she writes, composes music, and plays _Colonization_. o Helen Crombet-Beolens (snowcat@pinn.gen.nz) is a 25 year old PhD student and tutor in the English department of the University of Auckland. She has been writing poetry on and off for many years, but she has never had any of her work published before. o Amelia Fortenberry Franz (aff@tenet.edu) teaches English and history in the San Antonio area. Her writing has appeared in _The Texas Review_ and _English in Texas_, and she edits (along with husband Matthew) _Gruene Street: An Internet Journal of Prose and Poetry_. o Matthew Franz (mfranz@tenet.edu) is a graduate of Texas A&M University and currently teaches middle school history in San Antonio, TX. His poetry & fiction have appeared in _The Inkshed Press_ and _Portland Review_. He co-edits the e-journal _Gruene Street_ with his wife, Amelia. o Thomas J. Hubschman (tjhubsc@dorsai.org) was born in Teaneck, NJ and educated at Fordham Prep and Fordham College in Bronx, NY. He's lived in Brooklyn for twenty years. He's married and is a free-lance editor and consultant to Black Excel, a scholarship service for minorities. He has had two science fiction novels and short mainstream fiction published in _New York Press_, _The Free Press_ and _Voices of Brooklyn_ (ed. Sol Yurick). He's currently marketing _Billy Boy_, a contemporary novel about a rudderless young man who becomes involved in a murder; and _Park Slope Stories_, a collection of short fiction. He can be found on the World Wide Web at http://www.dorsai.org/~tjhubsc/. o Michael Kei Stewart (markst@ratsys.com) is a documentation manager in Massachusetts whose desk faces a window. He often looks out that window. He graduated from college with a degree in painting, and sometimes still thinks about that. With his wife, he visits Disney World and tries to write stories for children. They have two cats. Life is odd. o Arthur Shotmind (eddas@huber.com) has had other poems published in _The Morpo Review_. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ In Their Own Words o _Jericho to Jericho_ by Amelia Fortenberry Franz "The central idea of _Jericho to Jericho_ sprang, strangely enough, from my own experience as a young girl growing up a short distance from the Mississippi State Penitentiary at Parchman. I wanted to capture the thrill of a manhunt and the emotional effect that might have on a precocious young girl. I actually remember plotting strategy with my brother and sister, for how we would disarm and immobilize 'the convict' if/when he came around looking for trouble." o _At the Party_ by Samuel Barasch "In this piece, I have tried to simulate the chaos of a really wild party. The narrator escapes the chaos, however, when he perceives the target of his desires." o _Houses_ by Tara Calishain "_Houses_ was written after I stayed up all night with _The Fountainhead_ and _The March of Folly_. Somehow they got mixed up in my mind and spat as a poem." o _Early Spring_ by Michael Kei Stewart "_Early Spring_ is one of many attempts I have made to document the feelings I experience when rain threatens. In this case, I was sitting at my desk on a spring day, watching the clouds thicken and the wind stir the trees outside my window. A sudden glimpse of blue sky seemed very incongruous. Rain often rouses a visceral feeling that seems to be part anticipation, part awareness of some ancestral memory, and part sleepiness. Rain is a strong force to me, probably because I experienced Kenya's rainy seasons when young." o _A Girl and Her Dog_ by Mark Bothum "I'm currently involved in a joint effort to produce a high-tech action-adventure novel, while maintaining a carrer in engineering. Time management is critical and stress a constant companion. I wrote _A Girl and Her Dog_ over a weekend when ideas for the novel weren't flowing. Rather than stare at a blank screen and drink beer, I blasted the short story out as an exercise in dialogue. My girfriend never read it." o _Post-Suicide_ by Tara Calishain "_Post-Suicide_ was an attempt to express the notion of 'super-sanity'; the erroneous perspective that one can see all possible outcomes of all possible actions and is thus reduced to immobility." o _In the Attic_ by William C. Burns, Jr. "There was a summer, back in 1973, when I sat in the window and watched the fans on the roof of the cafeteria all night. She sat there beside me, and we didn't say a word the entire time. I wonder how she remembers it." o _Girl at the Prow of the Ferry_ by Helen Crombet-Beolens "The poem was written some time after the event described, when I was again travelling on the ferry-- this time feeling perhaps more self-conscious myself :-)." +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ WHERE TO FIND _THE MORPO REVIEW_ Back issues of The Morpo Review are available via the following avenues: = Electronic Mail (Send the command "get morpo morpo.readme" in the body of an e-mail message to lists@morpo.creighton.edu, exclude the quotes) = Gopher (morpo.creighton.edu:/The Morpo Review or ftp.etext.org:/Zines/Morpo.Review) = Anonymous FTP (morpo.creighton.edu:/pub/zines/morpo or ftp.etext.org:/Zines/Morpo.Review) ! = World Wide Web (http://morpo.novia.net/morpo/) = America Online (Keyword: PDA, then select "Palmtop Paperbacks", "EZine Libraries", "Writing", "More Writing") = Dial-Up Bulletin Board Systems - The Outlands BBS in Ketchikan, Alaska, USA [+1 907-247-1219, +1 907-225-1219, +1 907-225-1220] - The Myths and Legends of Levania in Council Bluffs, Iowa, USA [+1 712-325-8867] - Alliance Communications in Minnesota, USA [+1 612 251 8596] +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ SUBSCRIBE TO _THE MORPO REVIEW_ We offer three types of subscriptions to The Morpo Review: = ASCII subscription You will receive the full ASCII text of TMR delivered to your electronic mailbox when the issue is published. = PostScript subscription You will receive a ZIP'ed and uuencoded PostScript file delivered to your electronic mailbox when the issue is published. In order to view the PostScript version, you will need to capability to uudecode, unZIP and print a PostScript file. = Notification subscription You will receive only a small note in e-mail when the issue is published detailing where you can obtain a copy of the issue. If you would like to subscribe to The Morpo Review, send an e-mail message to morpo-request@morpo.creighton.edu and include your e-mail address and the type of subscription you would like. Subscriptions are processed by an actual living, breathing person, so please be nice when sending your request. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ ADDRESSES FOR _THE MORPO REVIEW_ ! rfulk@novia.net . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Robert Fulkerson, Editor mtmason@morpo.creighton.edu . . . . . . . . . Matthew Mason, Poetry Editor rummel@creighton.edu . . . . . . . . . . . . J.D. Rummel, Fiction Editor ! kkalil@novia.net . . . . . . . . . . Kris Kalil Fulkerson, Layout Editor morpo-submissions@morpo.creighton.edu . Submissions to _The Morpo Review_ morpo-request@morpo.creighton.edu . . . Requests for E-Mail subscriptions morpo-comments@morpo.creighton.edu . . . Comments about _The Morpo Review_ morpo-editors@morpo.creighton.edu . . . . . Reach all the editors at once +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ SUBMISSION GUIDELINES FOR TMR Q: How do I submit my work to The Morpo Review and what are you looking for? A: We accept poetry, prose and essays of any type and subject matter. To get a good feel for what we publish, please read some of our previous issues (see above on how to access back issues). The deadline for submissions is one month prior to the release date of an issue. We publish bi-monthly on the 15th of the month in January, March, May, July, September and November. If you would like to submit your work, please send it via Internet E-mail to the E-mail address morpo-submissions@morpo.creighton.edu. Your submission will be acknowledged and reviewed for inclusion in the next issue. In addition to simply reviewing pieces for inclusion in the magazine, we attempt to provide feedback for all of the pieces that are submitted. Along with your submission, please include a valid electronic mail address and telephone number that you can be reached at. This will provide us with the means to reach you should we have any questions, comments or concerns regarding your submission. There are no size guidelines on stories or individual poems, but we ask that you limit the number of poems that you submit to five (5) per issue (i.e., during any two month period). We can read IBM-compatible word processing documents and straight ASCII text. If you are converting your word processing document to ASCII, please make sure to convert the "smart quotes" (the double quotes that "curve" in like ``'') to plain, straight quotes ("") in your document before converting. When converted, smart quotes sometimes look like capital Qs and Ss, which can make reading and editing a submission difficult. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ Our next issue will be available on September 15, 1995. +----------------------------------------------------------------------------+